by Lucas Cole
“Okay. I get the picture.”
Kimbrough, however, is on a roll. “Yes—but Spangler took note of the enhanced agility his brigade gained by consuming the blood and organs of Todd’s men. Instant dexterity, the ability to accurately aim and fire pistols. Spangler started rationing the captives, not allowing his brigade to feast upon them until just before battles and after successful raids…as a reward. He kept me alive in the hope I would devise an injection or transfusion of some kind that would sustain the rejuvenation and make his army more formidable.”
“Did you succeed?”
“Your arrival interrupted the research.”
We walk in silence; the only sounds are warm gusts of wind buffeting us and the crunch of our feet against pebbles and scrub brush. No bird calls. The twin suns are setting and the desert below is rapidly dimming to a purplish haze. The air temperature is dropping quickly.
“Taggert, have you ever seen a bird up here? Against the sky?”
An unenthusiastic grunt comes from behind me…probably indicating “no.”
The path turns sharply into a small cleft in the cliff. Peter steps into it and disappears. The next man follows. End of the trail.
Inside the cleft, I find that the path slopes up and widens, easy to navigate. A few steps more and I reach the blue camp. It extends across a plateau covered with scattered black shards of rock and runs to another rise of the mountain a half a mile away. The blue camp is arranged in military fashion, with about fifty shelters comprised of rudimentary lean-to’s neatly forming two rows, the metal back of each lean-to facing west and its interior facing east. The back of the nearest lean-to is pitted from, I assume, blasts of wind and sand.
This place—with its fort and lean-to’s—looks familiar.
Female deadheads, their hair cut short, their movements no longer evocative yet still containing a remnant of womanhood, stop their work—sharpening tools, some mending boots from torn pieces of fabric, others guarding another, broader entrance to base camp. I recognize this area: the lean-to’s, a half-built fort near the mountain rise, piles of scrap metal.
“I’ve been here before—with one of Todd’s men. There’s another way down—a lot easier than descending that goat path along the cliffs.”
“Guarded, I am sure.”
“I’m sure. Tsunami’s always come from the same direction? From the west?”
“Yes.”
As if in recognition that our journey has ended, my back sends a deep slash of pain across my shoulder blades. “Ughh.” I start squeezing out of the harness. “Perhaps they’ll not mind you the use of one of the shelters. Let’s find out.”
With a deep heartfelt sigh, I free my back from Kimbrough’s weight and prop him up in the nearest empty shelter. I extend my arms and roll my neck; the audible popping disconcerting. I venture a few paces; I want to look out over the cliffs before the suns blink out.
“Ron…”
The tone of his voice pulls me back. “Don’t worry, doc. I’ll be back in a sec.”
But Kimbrough needs to make a point. “These fellows, Ron, the blues—they seem like a semi-friendly lot. We’re still breathing, after all. But they’re no longer human. Remember that. And they don’t follow human rules.” He points to a large pit in the center of camp.
The blackened pit is surrounded by smooth, flat stones used, I would guess, to sit upon. A campfire site? A wave of unreality makes my head suddenly feel light and I chuckle. Maybe they have a marshmallow roast scheduled? Whoa, get a grip, Crisp. You’ve come this far. You lose it and they’ll just toss you off the mountain. Or eat you.
“I’ve seen that kind of formation before,” Kimbrough continues. “In the red camp.”
The deadheads all stop their activity to watch me as I walk to the edge of the pit. No one bothers to obstruct my view. I glance at Peter but I cannot detect his emotions…if he still has any. But it is telling that he looks away.
It is a small piece of hell. Fractured bones, bones with telltale marks of having been gnawed and chewed. Blood spatters. Skulls, some gleaming and white, others with dried pieces of flesh still attached. No eyes; these would have been considered a delicacy, I suppose. Tattered pieces of clothing that could not be salvaged. A boot missing its sole, the leather cracked and warped, but its shoelaces notably absent. Blood stains on the rock seats ringing the pit. Blood trails to the nearby lean-to’s where the copulation and celebration would have taken place after the rejuvenating meal. Welcome to blue camp. Welcome to the “civilized” tribe.
It is a miracle that I do not retch, but instead, knowing that every deadhead (did I actually call these things men?) in camp has stopped its activity to watch me, I calmly join Peter where he is perched, unafraid, on the edge of the plateau, the miles of twilight desert extending below.
It is a magnificent view. As numb with horror and revulsion as I am, I cannot but help admire the beauty, the alien beauty and the unyielding remoteness of Sybaris. Below, a range of hills forms a circle around a central crater, no doubt the impact of an ancient meteor or asteroid. The evening wind lifts the sand from the edges of the dunes across the distant desert and sends glittering undulating streams of pinks, reds, and gold across the landscape. A bright pinpoint light gleams from Station C—a reflection of sunlight on metal.
Uninvited, I sit beside Peter and let my legs dangle over the void. He merely offers me a blank stare. The edge of his eye twitches, but I don’t understand what that means. I have not had time to study facial linguistics. I would like to live long enough, however, to learn them.
“Peter. My name is Ron Crisp. I am an expert in logistics…in putting things together, pooling resources. My main function is settling the provinces—the planets—that Rome determines are worth settling. I used to do this on a smaller scale during armed expeditions to support Elemental Mining projects. I have done this successfully for the government, but this time I do it for myself. I am interested in…saving Symbalis. Saving it requires showing Rome and EMC that this place can be profitable.” I run the risk of angering this blue chieftain, but the risk is already high. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
He does not flare in anger or push me off the cliff. He just nods and stares. He motions with a flick of his hand, indicating that I should continue.
“I was a major in the Imperial Forces. As I said, a logistics officer.” I swallow, praying that the inscrutable Peter is as calm as he appears. “I worked under one of your enemies, Spangler. Colonel Erik Spangler.”
Peter’s temporal area tightens, the only sign of emotion I can attest to.
Best to get it all out while I can. “I recently completed my duties, resigned my commission, and took up one last mission on behalf of Rome, but this time as a civilian. A civilian contractor, you might say. My mission is to get Sybaris back on track. My objectives are to restore ore mining, put down the “revolt” that Rome and EMC believe is taking place here, and to improve production. In fact, move production from just ore mining to fuel refinement—an idea that you started to promote, I believe. Failing these objectives will find Rome abandoning Sybaris, abandoning you, perhaps even wiping this place from existence if she perceives this place to be a potential threat.”
Peter nods, his dark eyes studying the ravaged Station C.
“My payment,” I push on, “for completing these tasks is Sybaris.” Another twitch on Peter’s face. Could be an eruption of emotion, for all I know. “EMC keeps the mineral rights, takes over the fuel refinery operation on behalf of Rome, once it’s been proven successful, and I take legal and full possession of Sybaris under Roman law. And Roman protection.” Any they decide they can spare, I add silently.
The wind gusts, nearly knocking me over into oblivion, but I hold on and try to look as unfazed as Peter.
“That’s my story, most of it. There’s one more part I will share with you, the part that will interest you and your people the most. But, first I want to put in a word for Dr. Kimbrough back there.”
And I go on to tell Peter about Kimbrough’s research into deadhead rejuvenation. Rejuvenation without the need for feeding upon humans. A rejuvenation that would be, eventually, permanent. This part, I exaggerate, perhaps to the point of lying. But who can say what Kimbrough, along with Zuckerman, might find with enough research?
A commotion behind me and Kimbrough’s voice, protesting. One of the female deadheads is poking Kimbrough in the chest and face with a sharp stick, like tormenting an animal in a zoo. The natives are getting restless. I turn back to Peter with a rising sense of urgency.
I can see the intelligence that lingers in his eyes. I am betting on that spark of intelligence and on the ambition that usually resides within leaders. Now, to flame the desire for revenge to complete Peter’s driving forces.
“I said that I know Spangler. Your enemy. I have seen him in action. I understand how he thinks. I have had the same training. I also know some things about Todd. I know how to defeat them. I have the means and now perhaps I have the army. Your army. A small bunch, but they can be trained and they already have a smart leader: you.” And then I deliver my real selling point. “Within the cargo hold of the ship at Station A is a crate that belongs to me. No one but I can access or move that crate without blowing the ship to dust particles. Inside that crate are weapons that I paid dearly for, weapons that are illegal in the domains of EMC, because Rome fears these type of weapons. These weapons are built upon an archaic system, but one that was highly efficient for waging war; they are powerful and in the light gravity of Sybaris, they can even bring down Roman ships, if need be.”
Kimbrough is shouting my name; I have to press on. “These weapons are denied to station personnel, supposedly because of the risk of penetrating station and reactor casings, but the real reason is because they can turn a small ragtag group of rebels like yours into a formidable force.”
“Ron! Help me!” I turn to see a couple deadheads dragging Kimbrough toward the pit. Why are they not doing the same to me?
When I face Peter again, he is studying me. I am not sure, but I think the corner of his lip rises, twitches, in an almost imperceptible smile. I feel as though I am being tested by what is about to occur.
Anger and desperation force me to throw caution to the wind. “Kill us now, for a moment’s pleasure. Satisfy your lusts. Be no more than rutting animals and lunatic half-men. Or bring us into your camp as allies and change your lives. It’s your call.”
“Ronnnn!”
I cannot watch what is happening behind me, but can only stare at the twilight spreading across the desert. Better to jump to my death than to be eaten alive by these freaks. But my words have reached a functioning brain, after all.
Peter stands and without effort pulls me to my feet, then signals to the several deadheads surrounding the struggling Kimbrough. It looks like two new members have joined the blue team.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XVI
Weed
Kimbrough and I share one of the half-shelters; I am afraid to leave him alone for fear of finding only scraps of his remains in the morning. At any rate, neither of us can sleep and I imagine Kimbrough shares the bone-numbing fatigue and hunger I have. I heard his stomach rumbling a moment ago. We have water, at least, in our canteens.
“Funny that they did not take your weapons,” Kimbrough points out.
“It would be pretty stupid of me to antagonize them. Maybe it’s a test.” My pistol belt lay to the side, along with the empty gun. I pull my knife from its belt buckle sheath and, with one of the many small black rocks scattered about, I start chipping. Sparks sprang into the air. “These black rocks are flint.” At least there would be no lack of fire if we need it.
I chip again and more sparks dance in the night air. Pulling out a clump of the nearby weed, I bunch it into a small nest and chip at the flint. A spark catches at the weed and a flame ignites. “Give me more of that weed over there, doc.” And Kimbrough pulls a larger clump. I add it to the burning bit and we have ourselves a crackling campfire. “Won’t last long, though. This stuff burns fast.”
Into the light of the flickering flames juts the face of one of the deadheads, startling in its nightmarish appearance. Kimbrough and I reflexively pull back, and then relax when we notice that the deadhead’s rheumy, scarred eyes are focused on the flames and not on us.
The creature makes no move to reach toward the flames, as would a human in this increasingly chill night air. It is the light and not the heat that attracts him. Soon another face joins him; this one I recognize belonging to Tiny Tim, who lays aside his plank-crutch.
They squat, side-by-side before the fire like primitive aborigines worshipping an ancient fire spirit. More of them join the little crowd and Kimbrough hurriedly adds as much weed as he can reach. The fire burns with bright yellow and orange flames and the smell has an odd, but bittersweet quality, like that of an herb. It occurs to me that we may be burning a source of nourishment. My stomach growls in agreement.
I quickly fashion a small ring of flints and rocks around the burning weed, then strip the tough canvas cover from my metal canteen and unscrew the lid. I break off some of the weed that is not burning yet and crumble the dry twigs in my hand, then pour the resulting powder into the opening of my canteen. I cap the canteen and shake vigorously, then place it over the fire, balancing the canteen on the rock and flint perimeter.
Kimbrough and the deadheads watch my every move.
“What are you doing?”
“Tea time, doc.”
“Are you crazy? No telling what effects consuming that might have upon you.”
“Guess not. Watch and see how it affects me before you try it.”
“Rest assured.”
I touch the canteen; it’s quite hot. I don’t want to burn the contents. Retrieving the canteen from the fire, I drop the metal canister onto the sand and give it a couple minutes. I must be crazy. But I am starving and plain water has little satisfying effect on hunger. The canteen is still hot, but I can handle it now without burning the crud out of my fingers.
The deadheads are enjoying the show. Tiny Tim actually motions me to go on…go on and drink. They can’t wait to see me convulse horribly. This is what passes as Saturday night entertainment in the blue camp.
Fine. I’m not doing this to impress anyone. I unstop the canteen and take a sniff at the contents. An acrid or caustic smell would alarm me—it would convince me to forgo the experiment. But the mixture still has that herb-like fragrance. Who knows? Maybe a deadly poison or an LSD-like substance. Somehow, I doubt it and I take a sip.
My tongue tingles and tells me that the solution is indeed quite bitter, but it does have a hint of tartness. I think it could be tamed with dilution and a little sweetener. I swallow and wait. My audience waits, too.
“Well? Any ill effects?”
“Not so far.” I take another mouthful and swallow it down. The fluid warms my esophagus and then my stomach. Warmth spreads to my chest and I feel my face flushing. “Wow.”
“Good?” Kimbrough tentatively reaches out. “Shall I try some?”
“Why not?” I let him sip from the canteen and then, encouraged, he takes a deeper swallow.
“A rather pleasant effect,” he decides. “I can practically feel it in my toes.”
“That’s funny, doc, since you don’t have any.” I start to take another drink, when Tiny reaches out a gnarled hand. What choice do I have? I hand him the canteen and wonder what will happen if something bad goes down here. What if Tiny implodes or something? I will be blamed. Nevertheless…
Tiny Tim, without hesitating, gulps down several swallows.
“Holy cow! Go easy!” I try to restrain him, but too late. He hands the canteen back and seems to be waiting for a reaction. His buddies also watch and wait.
Tiny lurches to his one good foot and topples over…
I brace myself for a violent reaction from the deadheads.
…then Tiny reemerges into the meager
campfire light and is once more balancing himself with his makeshift crutch. His face contorts and he gnashes his teeth horribly and I suspect that Kimbrough and I are going to reap hell in a moment. But then it dawns on me: Tiny is smiling, there is actually some color in his face and he is attempting to speak.
The sounds emanating from his throat are guttural, more like groans than words, but he exerts himself, his already bulbous eyes bulging with effort, and he grinds his teeth. He points at my canteen and utters a sound, like, “Errghic…”
“Uh, I don’t understand. What..?”
“Errghic…mrrghic…clicnk…” He motions toward the canteen are more urgently, his face more exasperated at his inability to communicate. Finally, he flings his crutch aside and drops down among his fellows at the dying light of the campfire. He extends his hand forward and seems to be demanding the canteen. One of the other deadheads grabs the canteen from my hand and gives it to Tiny, who, in turn, guzzles the remaining amount of the herb brew and hands me back the empty canteen.
“Waugh!” He grasps his face with his hands so hard that some of the desiccated flesh tears off under his fingernails. He lowers his hands and the scratched face we see is startlingly human: color in the cheeks, less stiffness to the expression, clarity to the corneas (where before there was the constantly hazy quality that characterizes the blind stare of the deadhead). The scratches on his face begin to bleed. Tiny relaxes and the gaze of his eyes meet mine—and I swear, I see a tear form in one of his eyes—then he speaks and this time I understand him. Importantly, we all understand—all of us sitting there in the semi-circle.
“Magic drink,” he says, quite clearly, and the effect upon his fellows is dramatic; they jerk back from him as if he were poison himself. Footsteps approach and Peter’s face appears above us, his glance sweeping from Tiny to me.
But Tiny’s gaze never leaves mine. “Fire inside me…my head…my heart…” He touches the sides of his jaws. “My mouth…I think…and talk…like a man…once more…look…” And he makes a fist—a simple movement of his hand that, a moment before, had been impossible for him. Then it is over as quickly as it came: his face loses its color, his expression loses its flaccidity, his hand stiffens back into a claw…and his eyes glaze over, this time worse than before, the corneas entirely white and opaque. With a last gurgling sound from his open mouth, he falls face-forward into the fire, extinguishing it entirely.